


(Un)Fair Treatment

by nvaleintern (orphan_account)



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, Gone Girl (2014), Real Person Fiction
Genre: (-ish), Anal Fingering, Barebacking, Body Hair, Body Worship, Coach Affleck, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Eating out, F/M, Fucking, M/M, Making Out, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Vaginal Fingering, shoutout to skiesandlife @ tumblr for giving me the prompt that started this all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 15:37:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9278279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/nvaleintern
Summary: When Coach doesn't treat you right, you gotta make him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading my fic! Just a friendly reminder that you don't need a AO3 Account in order to leave Kudos or Comments on a fic you liked! I hope you enjoy!

**MALE POV**

Coach Affleck had you bent over backwards for him and for what? So he can make you run another ten rounds across the track field any time he feels like it? It sucks. And he's only getting away with treating you like this because he looks like some middle-aged rip-off of some Greek god – the handsome sort, not the Hephaestus look-a-likes – and a suburban dad who's part-timing for a Target commercial. Ben is rocking his salt-and-pepper hair and he's been trying out that beard look that you approve of so much. Sometimes you find it super hard to concentrate on anything else but those lips and that ridiculous scruff of his. You catch yourself imagining how great it would be to feel the tingle of each hair scratching over your skin as his mouth would be working you o- wherever his jaw would get to work, that was up to your imagination and switched depending on how late it was and how insanely horny he made you feel.

Still, no matter how much you tried to find a common ground with the man, get closer to him and infiltrate that weird lone wolf lifestyle of his, all he seemed to do was add another round to your never-ending cycle, to keep you in shape for when that final day does come, you keep telling yourself.

It is days like these, though, that almost push you over the edge. You are standing there, listening intently to every word Ben says to the team, only to end up being called out for something ridiculous as yawning. "Does this fucking bore you? Get out and run some rounds for me," he says with a gruff tone that makes your dick twitch a little. When you try to object he simply barks back a "Now!" and so there you are, half-jogging to the outer track. And as you go through the motions, picking up speed until it hurts your side you tell yourself that's it. Time to do something about it. You can't keep going like this and you don't want to sacrifice going to practice. Frankly, you came for your best friend, initially stayed for the hot Dad™ teacher, but now you genuinely want to stay for the team, and the game – looking past all the miles you put on the track, it was fun to play with the guys.

Later that day, on your way over to the trailer park you try to think of things you could say to Ben- Coach Affleck, you remind yourself. He's treating you poorly. He's unfair, compared to all the other guys on the team. It's like he has some personal vendetta against you, like he enjoys torturing you and see you sweat your brains out.

Having locked your bike to some weird railing (it's dug pretty deep into the ground, you doubt anyone would be able to steal it), you make your way over to Ben's trailer. It's secluded, a bit far off from the other trailers, not that it would matter. This place is a freaking ghost town, with no one in sight, but a poor old Mastiff hound slouched on the gravel, not moving a bit. Was it weird for Coach Ben to live in a trailer? Probably. Was it weird it kind of turned you on for some reason? Definitely.

Taking a deep breath in, you knock on the door. It takes some time but according to the racket coming from inside, someone's home. That someone indeed turns out to be Coach Affleck (for a second there you were scared Tiff gave you some false info). His face goes from eyebrows drawn together in a frown, to a look of confusion. There's something else in-between there, too, but it disappears quickly behind a mask of indifference. "What are you doing here?," he asks, not even bothering to call you by your name.

"I-" you start, but you lose your train of thought, the sight in front of you too distracting. Coach Affleck apparently doesn't think it's necessary to wear anything else around the trailer except for maybe a pair of long, and mind you saying, very loose pair of low-waisted sweatpants. Nothing else _means_ nothing else; there's a bulge behind that gray fabric of his to prove your point, and some pretty black hairs making up a pavement to it. Oh Dorothy, you wish you could follow that Black Brick Road.

"What do you _want_?," he says again, a little less angry this time. He's eying you, too. Eventually, he moves his arm to welcome you inside. "Well, whatever it is, kid, we can talk about it inside. I'm freezing." His nipples second that statement, you don't fail to notice.

Not wanting to appear too eager, you take your time to walk up the three small stairs to his trailer. Inside, you look around. It's a quick look because there's not much space to see a lot. Some books, magazines, a bottle of scotch and a laptop on a small table. A bed... Basically, if you've seen some early '00 movies with a middle-aged man living out of a trailer – that's Coach Affleck's living situation. Good to know your late-night fantasies never went off-script too much.

"So," Ben sighs, probably tired that you still haven't told him what you came here for. To be fair, it's hard to concentrate with all that beef standing right there but that red fancy tape in your brain saying: Do Not Touch. "What do you want to talk about, kid?" Once inside Ben's voice seems to have lost all the rage. Quite on the contrary, he sounded concerned? To think you'd live to hear him talk like _that-_ where are your damn imaginary scissors so you can cut out all your remaining principles and throw them out of the window when you need it.

"I wanted to talk to you about the way you treat me at practice, Coach."

Ben just stands there, expressionless, looking right into your eyes. He has his arms crossed and you can't help but notice the beads of sweat on his biceps or the tattoos on his shoulders. Your fingers yearn to trace the outlines of the faded lines but: Do Not Touch. You want to take off your hoodie, suddenly noticing how hot the trailer is; no wonder Coach is walking around like that.

You continue, "I feel that you are unfair to me. I mean come on, I can't help for coughing. That's what happens when someone's sick, why the hell would you make me run for _coughing_?" Ben shifts from one foot to another, his bare soles scratching against the linoleum. "I'd call that a reach, wouldn't you, Coach- Sir?"

Ben cocks his head at the sound of that last word. Weird. He nods, taking a step in your direction. Your first instinct is to take a step back but you stand your ground. Eventually, he's close enough for you to smell his after-shave and a hint of sweat. Ben's all up in your personal space, and it looks like neither of you is about to back down. Weird. Hot. You don't know.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," he says with all the care in the world, and when he puts his palm on top of your shoulder, you can feel your heart burst open just a little. Maybe he _does_ care. "It's inappropriate of me to do this," His fingers curl around your hoodie, tips digging into your skin. "but _fuck-_ it's inappropriate what you make me feel, goddammit." He breaks the eye-contact, suddenly looking down to the floor again, "I know it's no excuse but you just make me think about the filthiest, most fucked-up things, you know that?"

Well _that_ certainly took a turn for the better. The idea that Coach Affleck might be punishing you to actually punish himself never occurred to you. Partially because it's a stupid thing to do, project his own feelings onto his object of lust like that, but in some way it was hot. Weird. And in retrospect it made sense, all of his gazes, commands, seemingly innocent touches – all of it just entered a new room for interpretation, and you liked the look of that room a lot more.

"I promise I will treat you better next practice." Ben's lips are pursed in a tight line, his jaw a sharp, clean-shaven edge with only a shadow of a stubble left behind. You watch as his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows. You try to memorize the way his naked chest rises and falls as he breathes, the way it makes his chest hair flutter. All you want right now is to trace the lines of his smooth skin from his collarbone to the spot where black pit hairs stick out from under his broad arms. You feel even hotter than before, the trailer one big microwave of emotions, cooking up just one thought. "I don't think I can wait 'til next practice," you whisper.

Ben's grip on your shoulder tightens, already dragging your hoodie down a bit, exposing a piece of skin. "Are you a hundred percent sure? I don't want to hurt you."

You nod, and for the first time since you joined the team you are graced with a Coach Affleck smile, somewhere between a smirk and a goofy, sideways grin. His hand slips off your shoulder, taking the hoodie with it. Your shirt and shorts follow, leaving you wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs you lose just as quickly.

Coach Ben takes a step back then, admiring you from a close distance. Every muscle in your body is humming, pushing you forward to close that gap but you control yourself, and in take decide to admire your own view. Coach really is like a suburban god, a sculpture that, according to the now-hard bulge pressed against those sweatpants of his, does not match it's Greek counterparts when it comes to dick size (thank the Gods)

*

"You look so fucking good," he moans in-between wet kisses, "I've done such a good job training you, shaping you."

Once the two of you started going at it you let your hands wander all over, touching him everywhere from the nape of his neck to the small of his back, desperate not to miss a thing. Coach does the same to you, big palms holding you close and meaty fingers fumbling with the rim of your ass, circling around the entrance as he moans obscenities around your tongue.

Gone for a second, Ben returns with a bottle in his hands and glistening fingers begging for more. You decide to take this into the bedroom, which conveniently enough is only a few steps away, not like the two of you won't screw your way across this whole trailer anyway, but it's okay to start things out on a mattress that smells so heavenly of Ben.

You draw your legs up to your chest, "All of your practice really does come in handy, Coach."  
"Just call me Ben," he says, dropping to his knees.

Eyes closed you ready yourself for the cool touch of fingers on your ass, so imagine your surprise when instead you get to find Ben's hot mouth on your hole, working his way around the rim. His slick tongue is licking circles inside as he moans into you, making you grasp the sheets like it's life support. The room blurs out of focus and for a second you're afraid this all is just some wet dream you could be ripped away from at any second, but as Ben adds a finger to his tongue magic trick, the burn that comes with it is enough to assure you it's real.

"Fuck, kid, you're so wet," he purrs, fucking his finger in and out, adding a second and eventually a third. The lube and spit is making nasty sounds that echo off the walls, accompanied by Ben's grunts. "I'm gonna fuck you so good," he promises, his eyes wild with desire as he watches you melt away under his touch," I'm gonna fuck you raw and eat that come right out of your ass. Wouldn't you like that, boy?"

"Yes, sir," you whimper.

"Do you want me to fuck your brains out?" His fingers are pushing your walls, curling up inside of you, "Fuck you so you won't be able to walk straight for a week, much less run?"

"Just do it!," you snap, desperation washing over you, "Coach, please. _Ben_."

That did the trick. With one swift motion, Coach Affleck places your legs onto his shoulders as he slides his dick inside. Every inch of it burns as the thick shaft sinks deeper, the pain almost too overwhelming – but seeing Ben's face loom over you with that short black hair stuck to his sweaty forehead; watch the look in his eyes as he hits home, your whimpers and whines making his lip curl in that cocky way – this is heaven

His movements were slow and gentle at first. Ben understands that you need to get used to the feeling of him inside of you - he may not be the first but he's definitely the first of that size.

You let the weight of his body consume you, sink you into the hard mattress as he slowly picks up the pace. Wild with desire you let your hands and lips wander once again, catching whatever you can get - a hard nipple here, a cup of cheek there. Ben's grunting and growling, his head burrowed between your neck and shoulder as he thrusts his hips forward, ruthlessly, urged on by your whines, fucking you harder until you can't feel anything but him inside of you - inside of you and coming, coming so hard that the warning he tries to utter comes too late. Load after load of hot sperm fills you up as you fist your own cock to finality, a moan so loud escaping your lips you're scared it might wake up the Mastiff outside.

"Fuck, I-" Ben's breathing hard, his body slumped on top of yours, pressing your ribcage into your lungs.

"Coach can you please, move- over," you huff as you push him off of you to the side. The bed creaks under the pressure.

For some reason Ben's laughing, his beefy arm draped over his face, his whole body shaking.

"What's the matter coach?," you ask, feeling a smile unfurl on your own face. "Ben!"

"It's just- we're so fucked. I'm so fucked."

"Not yet. But you can be if you want to." You let your hands tip-toe up his thigh, and let's just say he doesn't swat it away. With that ass, it's not weird at all.

 

 

**FEMALE POV**

Coach Affleck had you bent over backwards for him and for what? So he can make you run another ten rounds across the track field any time he feels like it? It sucks. And he's only getting away with treating you like this because he looks like some middle-aged rip-off of some Greek god – the handsome sort, not the Hephaestus look-a-likes – and a suburban dad who's part-timing for a Target commercial. Ben is rocking his salt-and-pepper hair and he's been trying out that beard look that you approve of so much. Sometimes you find it super hard to concentrate on anything else but those lips and that ridiculous scruff of his. You catch yourself imagining how great it would be to feel the tingle of each hair scratching over your skin as his mouth would be working you o- wherever his jaw would get to work, that was up to your imagination and switched depending on how late it was and how insanely horny he made you feel.

Still, no matter how much you tried to find a common ground with the man, get closer to him and infiltrate that weird lone wolf lifestyle of his, all he seemed to do was add another round to your never-ending cycle, to keep you in shape for when that final day does come, you keep telling yourself.

It is days like these, though, that almost push you over the edge. You are standing there, listening intently to every word Ben says to the team, only to end up being called out for something ridiculous as yawning. "Does this fucking bore you? Get out and run some rounds for me," he says with a gruff tone that makes your dick twitch a little. When you try to object he simply barks back a "Now!" and so there you are, half-jogging to the outer track. And as you go through the motions, picking up speed until it hurts your side you tell yourself that's it. Time to do something about it. You can't keep going like this and you don't want to sacrifice going to practice. Frankly, you came for your best friend, initially stayed for the hot Dad™ teacher, but now you genuinely want to stay for the team, and the game – looking past all the miles you put on the track, it was fun to play with the girls.

Later that day, on your way over to the trailer park you try to think of things you could say to Ben- Coach Affleck, you remind yourself. He's treating you poorly. He's unfair, compared to all the other guys on the team. It's like he has some personal vendetta against you, like he enjoys torturing you and see you sweat your brains out.

Having locked your bike to some weird railing (it's dug pretty deep into the ground, you doubt anyone would be able to steal it), you make your way over to Ben's trailer. It's secluded, a bit far off from the other trailers, not that it would matter. This place is a freaking ghost town, with no one in sight, but a poor old Mastiff hound slouched on the gravel, not moving a bit. Was it weird for Coach Ben to live in a trailer? Probably. Was it weird it kind of turned you on for some reason? Definitely.

Taking a deep breath in, you knock on the door. It takes some time but according to the racket coming from inside, someone's home. That someone indeed turns out to be Coach Affleck (for a second there you were scared Tiff gave you some false info). His face goes from eyebrows drawn together in a frown, to a look of confusion. There's something else in-between there, too, but it disappears quickly behind a mask of indifference. "What are you doing here?," he asks, not even bothering to call you by your name.

"I-" you start, but you lose your train of thought, the sight in front of you too distracting. Coach Affleck apparently doesn't think it's necessary to wear anything else around the trailer except for maybe a pair of long, and mind you saying, very loose pair of low-waisted sweatpants. Nothing else _means_ nothing else; there's a bulge behind that gray fabric of his to prove your point, and some pretty black hairs making up a pavement to it. Oh Dorothy, you wish you could follow that Black Brick Road.

"What do you _want_?," he says again, a little less angry this time. He's eying you, too. Eventually, he moves his arm to welcome you inside. "Well, whatever it is, kid, we can talk about it inside. I'm freezing." His nipples second that statement, you don't fail to notice.

Not wanting to appear too eager, you take your time to walk up the three small stairs to his trailer. Inside, you look around. It's a quick look because there's not much space to see a lot. Some books, magazines, a bottle of scotch and a laptop on a small table. A bed... Basically, if you've seen some early '00 movies with a middle-aged man living out of a trailer – that's Coach Affleck's living situation. Good to know your late-night fantasies never went off-script too much.

"So," Ben sighs, probably tired that you still haven't told him what you came here for. To be fair, it's hard to concentrate with all that beef standing right there but that red fancy tape in your brain saying: Do Not Touch. "What do you want to talk about, kid?" Once inside Ben's voice seems to have lost all the rage. Quite on the contrary, he sounded concerned? To think you'd live to hear him talk like _that-_ where are your damn imaginary scissors so you can cut out all your remaining principles and throw them out of the window when you need it.

"I wanted to talk to you about the way you treat me at practice, Coach."

Ben just stands there, expressionless, looking right into your eyes. He has his arms crossed and you can't help but notice the beads of sweat on his biceps or the tattoos on his shoulders. Your fingers yearn to trace the outlines of the faded lines but: Do Not Touch. You want to take off your hoodie, suddenly noticing how hot the trailer is; no wonder Coach is walking around like that.

You continue, "I feel that you are unfair to me. I mean come on, I can't help for coughing. That's what happens when someone's sick, why the hell would you make me run for _coughing_?" Ben shifts from one foot to another, his bare soles scratching against the linoleum. "I'd call that a reach, wouldn't you, Coach- Sir?"

Ben cocks his head at the sound of that last word. Weird. He nods, taking a step in your direction. Your first instinct is to take a step back but you stand your ground. Eventually, he's close enough for you to smell his after-shave and a hint of sweat. Ben's all up in your personal space, and it looks like neither of you is about to back down. Weird. Hot. You don't know.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," he says with all the care in the world, and when he puts his palm on top of your shoulder, you can feel your heart burst open just a little. Maybe he _does_ care. "It's inappropriate of me to do this," His fingers curl around your hoodie, tips digging into your skin. "but _fuck-_ it's inappropriate what you make me feel, goddammit." He breaks the eye-contact, suddenly looking down to the floor again, "I know it's no excuse but you just make me think about the filthiest, most fucked-up things, you know that?"

Well _that_ certainly took a turn for the better. The idea that Coach Affleck might be punishing you to actually punish himself never occurred to you. Partially because it's a stupid thing to do, project his own feelings onto his object of lust like that, but in some way it was hot. Weird. And in retrospect it made sense, all of his gazes, commands, seemingly innocent touches – all of it just entered a new room for interpretation, and you liked the look of that room a lot more.

"I promise I will treat you better next practice." Ben's lips are pursed in a tight line, his jaw a sharp, clean-shaven edge with only a shadow of a stubble left behind. You watch as his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows. You try to memorize the way his naked chest rises and falls as he breathes, the way it makes his chest hair flutter. All you want right now is to trace the lines of his smooth skin from his collarbone to the spot where black pit hairs stick out from under his broad arms. You feel even hotter than before, the trailer one big microwave of emotions, cooking up just one thought. "I don't think I can wait 'til next practice," you whisper.

Ben's grip on your shoulder tightens, already dragging your hoodie down a bit, exposing a piece of skin. "Are you a hundred percent sure? I don't want to hurt you."

You nod, and for the first time since you joined the team you are graced with a Coach Affleck smile, somewhere between a smirk and a goofy, sideways grin. His hand slips off your shoulder, taking the hoodie with it. Your shirt and shorts follow, leaving you wearing nothing but a pair of panties and a bra that you lose just as quickly.

Coach Ben takes a step back then, admiring you from a close distance. Every muscle in your body is humming, pushing you forward to close that gap but you control yourself, and in take decide to admire your own view. Coach really is like a suburban god, a sculpture that, according to the now-hard bulge pressed against those sweatpants of his, does not match it's Greek counterparts when it comes to dick size (thank the Gods)

*

"You look so fucking good," he moans in-between wet kisses, "I've done such a good job training you, shaping you."

Once the two of you started going at it you let your hands wander all over, touching him everywhere from the nape of his neck to the small of his back, desperate not to miss a thing. Coach does the same to you, big palms massaging your breasts and meaty fingers sliding past the lace down to your clit, circling and flicking it as he moans obscenities around your tongue.

Gone for a second, Ben returns with a bottle in his hands and glistening fingers begging for more. You decide to take this into the bedroom, which conveniently enough is only a few steps away, not like the two of you won't screw your way across this whole trailer anyway, but it's okay to start things out on a mattress that smells so heavenly of Ben.

You spread your legs open for him, wet and ready. "I just want to feel you, Coach."  
"Call me Ben," he says, dropping to his knees.

Eyes closed you ready yourself for the cool touch of fingers but instead Ben licks his way into you, Ben's hot mouth on your pussy, working his way around the clit. His slick tongue is licking circles inside as he moans into you, making you grasp the sheets like it's life support. The room blurs out of focus and for a second you're afraid this all is just some wet dream you could be ripped away from at any second, and as Ben adds a finger to his tongue magic trick, you start it even more than before.

"Fuck, baby, you're so wet," he purrs, fucking his finger in and out, adding a second and eventually a third. The lube and spit is making nasty sounds that echo off the walls, accompanied by Ben's grunts. "I'm gonna fuck you so good," he promises, his eyes wild with desire as he watches you melt away under his touch," I'm gonna fuck you raw and eat that come right out of you. Wouldn't you like that, honey?"

"Yes," you whimper.

"Do you want me to fuck your brains out?" His fingers are pushing your walls, curling up inside of you, "Fuck you so you won't be able to walk straight for a week, much less run?"

"Just do it!," you snap, desperation washing over you, "Coach, please. _Ben_."

That did the trick. With one swift motion, Coach Affleck places your legs onto his shoulders as he slides his dick inside. Every inch of it feels fantastic, his thick shaft sinking in deeper, spreading you open even more than the other guys did before him. Ben's face looms over you, his short black hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, and when he hits home and makes you cry out his name like a prayer his eyes light up like you haven't seen before.

You let the weight of his body consume you, sink you into the hard mattress as he slowly picks up the pace. Wild with desire you let your hands and lips wander once again, catching whatever you can get - a hard nipple here, a cup of cheek there. Ben's grunting and growling, his head burrowed between your neck and shoulder as he thrusts his hips forward, ruthlessly, urged on by your whines, fucking you harder until you can't feel anything but him inside of you - inside of you and coming, coming so hard that the warning he tries to utter comes too late. Load after load of hot sperm fills you up as you rub yourself to finality, a moan so loud escaping your lips you're scared it might wake up the Mastiff outside.

"Fuck, I-" Ben's breathing hard, his body slumped on top of yours, pressing your ribcage into your lungs.

"Coach can you please, move- over," you huff as you push him off of you to the side. The bed creaks under the pressure.

For some reason Ben's laughing, his beefy arm draped over his face, his whole body shaking.

"What's the matter coach?," you ask, feeling a smile unfurl on your own face. "Ben!"

"It's just- we're so fucked. I'm so fucked."

"Not yet. But you can be if you want to." You let your hands tip-toe up his thigh, and let's just say he doesn't swat it away. With that ass, it's not weird at all.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to submit prompts in my askbox at dogphood.tumblr.com or hmu in my DM's on Twitter @ khoshek


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